


Jeeves and The Fight

by plaid_knockabout



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Blood, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Tags May Change, bertie has it bad!!!!, gratuitous descriptions of jeeves, like really mild it's just a split lip that drips a bit, poor communication
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22611199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaid_knockabout/pseuds/plaid_knockabout
Summary: When Jeeves turns up rather worse for wear on the Wooster doorstep late one night, young Bertram bends to the task of caring for him. But how the devil did the man get into such a state to begin with?
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 102
Kudos: 196





	1. Chapter 1

The little clock on the mantle ticked merrily on under my gaze. Eleven thirty-nine, eleven forty. Hm. Jeeves. He’d ought to be back soon. I wasn’t planning on waiting up for him, but then again, lately, one doesn’t like to sail off with Morpheus before giving the man a farewell. It was his night off-- Jeeves that is, not Morpheus, I don’t reckon they ever let that poor bird take a night off-- and though he usually comes home rather late after passing what I hope to be pleasant evenings, this was certainly the latest he’d been out in a long while. I couldn’t shake the clinging feeling that something wasn’t quite cricket. So, there I stood in the sitting room, clad in not but my dressing gown and pajamas, waiting with creased brow and clasped hands. 

Now, you ought to know so that you may better understand the context of this tale-- and I ought to tell you as that is my job as the author-- the reason I was propped up in the sitting room like a foolish… er thing-that-is-propped-up, and why I was so keen on waiting to give Jeeves a cheery ‘goodnight’, weren’t so much to do with courtesy or even with camaraderie, but rather the latest desperate effort in quelling the ache within the Wooster breast. You see, the young master had been pining after his manservant for many, many moons. He had given up any hope of winning him over long ago and now contented himself in the tiniest snippets of intimacy that he was afforded simply due to their proximity. If Bertram had to spend the long, cold night alone again, he wanted to at least have the words _“Goodnight, sir”_ to ring in his ears and wrap ‘round his weary heart.

Rummy, I know, one may go as far as to say ghastly. But there it was. Now where were we?

I was about a tick away from throwing in the huckaback with a sigh and trudging off to see if Morpheus was ready to rig up the mainsail when I heard the scrape of a key on the front door’s lock. Oh but how odd! Jeeves never makes a sound when he returns from beyond the flat; ever quiet as the proverbial chapel-dwelling rodent. So why now, did the key grate upon the lock? Perhaps it wasn’t Jeeves, but who else held such a key? Perhaps someone had stumbled to the wrong flat number? The key continued to rasp. Perhaps, I thought, I had better go and get the door.

I tugged my robe tighter around my frame and creaked the d. o. 

Oh good lord! “Oh good lord!” 

The Wooster heart leaped straight up and then took an ill-calculated dive into the pit of my stomach. Jeeves was stood in the doorstep, well ‘stood’ is a little generous, Jeeves was _in_ the doorstep, though barely. My man was so thoroughly dishevelled that had I not known him to be Jeeves, I would have assumed he had gotten himself into some sort of scrap. Worry and concern suffused my being and I found myself at rather a loss.

“I mean to say, Jeeves, good lord!”

You, dear reader, must be shaking the pages in your hand, saying “Well, Wooster, you say ‘dishevelled’ and this is all terribly exciting, but how the devil did he look to give such a shock?” and so I shall enlighten you, if that’s the word I want. 

He loomed above me like the star-eaten blanket of the sky, but rather less star-eaten and more er filth-eaten. His customarily pristine suit was mussed beyond salvation and his tie had forgone his neck, leaving his collar unbuttoned. One of his broad shoulders was slumped upon the doorframe, it rose and fell slightly as his chest heaved like a great billow. His hair was ruffled splendidly and hung down into his eyes. While we’re talking about his eyes, his left one looked as though someone had cut a plum in half and rubbed it all over with the hope of producing a stain, that is to say rather purple and yellowy. Perhaps someone should hold a plum to his eye, a cold one I mean, might help bring down the swelling. Regardless, what I’m trying to say is he looked positively rummy. Beyond rummy. I informed him of this fact with wavering voice.

He gave one of his small almost-smiles. “Indeed, sir.” His breath came short and his voice rough. I could feel my ears and cheeks begin to heat with god-knows-what. I hesitate to admit it, especially after disclosing how deplorably amorous I am toward the man, but his rumpled state really stoked the embers of the Wooster desire. Rather caused them to burst forth into flame, if you must know. And you must understand as I say this that my lust did not overcloud my disquiet-- I was sincerely rattled, the Wooster heart was filled with fret, but the Wooster loin was filled with, er, something else. I couldn’t bally believe myself and my antipathy struggled to beat the lechery back into the little locked box at the hind part of my mind where it belonged. It was a losing battle.

We stood there, I looking at him and him at I for a long while. I couldn’t quite place the thingness that lurked within his dark gaze, so I glanced down. However, before the baby blues could reach their floorward destination, they caught on the Jeevesian lips. Said l.s were parted and split and leaking slightly. Before I could ascertain what the dickens I was doing, I had reached a hand up to wipe away some of the hemo-whatsit. My thumb was tracing his soft lips when my senses flooded back to me like so much something-that-floods. Dread seized hold of me. My man was frozen underneath my hand and I stole a glance northward. The lurking thingness was still there with bally bells on. Yet for the life of me I couldn’t tell you, dear reader, what it was. It filled his eyes so much so that I thought they would well up and pour over with the stuff pretty soon. Before it had the chance to however, I retracted the Wooster mit. A plan of escape began to scrawl itself wildly across the onion, excuse after babbling excuse that I should have said to at least try to save my hide. But Jeeves beat me to it.

“Thank-- Thank you, sir. I had forgotten that I was bleeding at the lip. I shall remedy it directly so as not to stain anything.” He tentatively reached up and touched his lips, smearing the blood more. Yet, he made no effort to move away to ‘remedy it directly’. I too was stuck to the spot for an instant, transfixed by the man before me. A small cough like the whisper of a sigh of an aged sheep on a distant hilltop broke the spell and with mumbled apology, I took a step back to allow him to shuffle into the sitting room.

“Jolly good, old thing. I’ll uh help you with that. If you like, that is.” The words struggled their way out of my mouth, clamouring awkwardly and at rather too high a pitch.

“Sir is-- Sir is too kind.” He refused to meet my gaze as he didn’t so much as limp, as Jeeveses do not limp, but didn’t quite glide into the kitchen.

“Not at all, not at all.” I followed suit on shaky pins. 

Jeeves started toward the sink, but I bade him sit down and after a moment of feudal obstinacy, he settled onto a chair at the little kitchen table. I soaked a soft cloth in cool water and brought it to him. Our fingers brushed as I handed it over and I could kick myself for the way my inhale came sharp at the contact. Jeeves didn’t seem to notice however and set to dabbing gently at his leaky lip. I perched on the chair opposite him and steeling my nerves, resolved to get to the bottom of what had occurred.

“Now, old thing, please tell me, what the deuce happened?” He set the cloth down and began to rub gingerly at his knuckles, which were also rather plum-esque.

“There was, ahem, an altercation, sir, with which I involved myself… physically.” He refused to meet my gaze then. 

My brow crinkled. “An alter-huh?”

“An argument, sir.”

“Oh I see.”

I fiddled with the cuff of my robe. What on earth was said to force my glacier of a man to crack in such a way? 

“What on earth was said, Jeeves?” I glanced up with the intention of shooting him a quizzical look, but was caught without any guards on as it were, as I witnessed my man divest himself of mess jacket. My ‘quizzical look’ turned out to be a ‘longing gaze’ as I ogled my ever-faithful servant, now clad only in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Just when I thought it was too much, it couldn’t get any more whatsit, the man brought his big arms to rest upon the tabletop. The young master thought he might make like a maiden and faint at the sight. However, we Woosters are made from sterner stuff than maidens-- unless those maidens are Glossops or Crayes, that is-- and I remained planted to the seat of my chair. But oh! How I longed to be held fast by those big, strong arms. To be tucked up against that chest, warm and safe from all the world’s worries…

A small cough of the sighing-hilltop-ovine variety shook me from my woolgathering. I tore the peepers from his b. s. a.s and hoped to billy-o and back that he had not taken heed of my senseless gawking. He caught my eye then and I wondered where someone had found the time to smear my cheeks with petrol and lob their lighter at the old Wooster pate. 

“I hope that you can excuse the breach of decorum, sir.”

How could I refuse him anything? “Certainly, Jeeves, certainly. No excusing necessary.” 

He gave a nod of gratitude and continued to eye me as though he was trying to get that petrol to pick up the pace and burn through me already. 

“As to what was said, sir, it was not simply what was intoned, but rather what was implied.”

The pearl-likes worried at the petal-likes. All this eyeing and burning-up had put this Wooster on a bit of an edge and I found I couldn’t quite muster up the requisite amount of gray matter to puzzle out what the dickens he meant.

“What the dickens do you mean?”

Jeeves picked the cloth back up and began to toy with it. I’d never seen him comport himself in such a manner; Jeeveses do not usually toy. “An acquaintance of mine made a rather… untoward insinuation about… about your person, sir.”

“I say!” The mind was boggled! “About me?” 

He knit his impressive brow, and I dare say he purled it as well. “Yes, sir.” 

“What could your acquaintance have to say about me?” He set the cloth down and looked up at me. The fire in his gaze subsisted no longer on what I had hoped to be passion, I could see that it was now fueled by fury; the recollection seemed to have spurned the readily available pile of sweet crackling wood in favour of shoveling on grimy coal, as it were.

“He ridiculed you, sir. Insulted your honor.” The noble Jeevesian lip curled with disdain and the noble Jeevesian chin tipped up slightly. “So naturally, I felt it was my duty to defend it.” 

You could’ve knocked me over with a f., provided I hadn’t already fallen down from swooning. Jeeves? Defending _my_ honor? The old heart brimmed with pride-- to think! I was worthy of defending in his eyes. And if I was worthy of defending, perhaps I was worthy of other sorts of kindnesses from the man.

I attempted to quash down my giddiness, and respond to his admission with the grace and restraint expected of a gentleman. “Well, thank you, Jeeves. That was very chivalrous of you, very _preux_.” 

“That is very kind of you to say, sir.” My valiant valet! Ever the humble old thing. I’m afraid my giddiness unquahsed itself around this point and I couldn’t help beaming at my man. What a wonder he was, what a shining wonder. 

He too seemed to soften a little around the edges; the fire fading from his eyes, leaving only a gentle glow. I wondered what had caused it to sizzle out, for surely the conversation hadn’t doddled too far from the subject which had sparked his ire, and he was simply staring at me, which shouldn’t give anyone reason to soften. 

My curiosity was piqued, or perhaps it’s peaked… Well either way, my curiosity raised its head again when a rather interesting thought sauntered across the lawn of my mind: _why?_ What I mean is why would Jeeves ‘feel it is his duty’ to defend me this time? Why correct anyone in their honestly rather factual conjecture that the young master is a complete and utter fathead? What possible reason could Jeeves have now for taking up the sword? My honor has been insulted many, many times and more often than not the man allows it, encourages it even! By Jove, more often than not he does the insulting himself. Not that I am one to complain, not at all. The sullying of the Wooster dignity is a means to an end and Bertram cares not what ladle fishes him from the soup, so long as it fishes. Even if the ladle can sting at times. But regardless, why rush to my aid now? 

“I say, old thing, not that I’m complaining at all, but what was it that er compelled you to hoist up the old red banner as it were and fight for young Bertram?”

“Sir?” His demeanor shifted and he put on a bally good impression of a stuffed, if not slightly confused, frog.

“It’s just that, you know, you’ve oft left the Wooster spirit to face the slings and arrows of whatsit alone, if you yourself didn’t loose them that is. That isn’t to say you’ve never taken arms against my sea of troubles, you bally well have and by opposing ended the lot and all that drivel… But hum, now what was I trying to say? Er right, you’ve never defended me, before, that is, well I mean you have in your wondrous ways defended me from a lot of quite horrible eventualities and I thank you and my lucky stars for that, but usually that method of defence ends with the Wooster honor in tatters, usually by your own very capable hand. So what I am attempting to ask, Jeeves, is why pick a fight over something as dashed silly as my honor?”

The man behind the frog became unsettled. 

“Why do you ask, sir?” He directed his gaze just over the young master’s slender shoulder.

“Oh, just trying to get a better grip on that ‘psychology of the individual’ wheeze you’re always on about.” This seemed to give him little comfort. Something about my man was off, but I couldn’t quite put a digit on it. 

He cleared his throat. 

“I found myself unable to stand idly by and listen to his opprobrious assessment of your character, sir. I do not know if I can attribute this to the spirits I had partaken of earlier in the evening, or due to my recollecting all the occasions that I had neglected to take action to defend your person from abuse. Perhaps it was a combination of the two. I wish to apologize for each time I slighted you or your honor, and for each incident where I let you suffer at the cruelty of others. I am sincerely sorry, sir. You do not deserve to be treated so heartlessly-- you deserve far, far better. I would also like to disclose that I have never truly meant any of the slanderous remarks I have made against your character; they were lies, designed to perpetuate a ruse. I have thought of your honor as a tool to be used and broken when required to fit the needs of a contrivance, but that is wrong and I am sorry. I suppose I snapped when I heard that disgrace of a man insult you, for I could not bear the thought that I have ever treated you as such. My shame knows no bounds, sir, and I understand if you cannot forgive me.”

I’m afraid I came across as not a little bit stunned, opening and closing the mouth in a piscine fashion. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Jeeves divulge so much in one sitting. And his apology was deeply appreciated.

“Oh my dear, dear man. Thank you for your apology, I really do appreciate it. And accept it, thank you, Jeeves. You are most forgiven, old thing.”

He met my gaze as sheepishly as a Jeeves is want to sheep. “Thank you, sir.”

I was feeling rather rosy and warm, even more so than before. Any more rosy-warmness and soon I’d be giving off steam and ought to be served in fine bone china. But something snagged on the old gray matter and became rather caught. Something bursting and hopeful and confusing.

“I didn’t know-- didn’t know that you felt that way, that is.” I tried to give word to that b., h., and c. something. Though not quite correctly elocuted, it did the trick.

“Sir?” Jeeves froze up all over, going as stiff as a well-starched collar.

“That you, you know, don’t think that I actually am the fathead that I am.”

“No, sir, ” He puffed his chest a bit and frowned in offence. 

“You possess a great deal of intelligence, sir.” He sounded so insulted you’d have thought that I had just reached over and given him a bite to the leg.

“Well, I don’t know if I would say a _great deal--_ ” My ears now joined the rosy-burning fete and I found it difficult not to turn into a smiling buffoon. 

He rose from his chair rather abruptly and glided around to the side of the little table. “And a great strength of character, sir. And grace and gentleness.”

His chiseled features were still set in stone, but his eyes filled with that rummy whatsit once more, causing them to flash dangerously. Flash in the same fashion that it is safe to assume can be attributed to a heroine of a Rosie M. Banks novel just as she is telling the factory owner that yes dammit she may be a woman, but she has worth!

“Now, Jeeves,” I took to my feet as well, ducking the coconut in what I hoped to be a boyishly charming manner.

“Not to mention that you are the kindest, bravest, most selfless, most generous, most gracious, upstanding man I have ever had the privilege of knowing.”

He was awful close now. So bally close I could hear his heart thrumming through his waistcoat! Or perhaps that was my own ticker that was pounding away at my eardrum. Either way it was far too bally loud and he was far too bally close.

“And if it is not improper to say so, sir,” If I were to take to the tips of my toes and lean forward but an inch, my lips would find his. How dangerous this was. How very, very dangerous.

“You bring light and joy with you everywhere you go.” I allowed myself to meet his gaze. And at that moment I found that I had no metaphors to describe what I saw there. I, Bertram Wooster, did not know what it meant. I only knew what I hoped it meant. And I was so terrified that my hopes may be dashed, that I dared not give utterance to its name.

“You know, that means everything coming from you-- a person such as yourself,” The words fell from my lips but I could not recall saying them, for the entirety of the Wooster intellect was focused solely on the big hand that had come to gently cup my blushing cheek.

I felt something warm, and somewhat sticky on the old chop, but then again, I felt rather warm and somewhat sticky all over at this point so I paid it no mind. I simply reveled in the feeling of him touching me. To think! Jeeves was holding Bertram’s face in his capable hand! His thumb rubbed tenderly along my cheekbone and I shut the baby blues, trying my very best to enjoy it while it lasted. For who knows what this meant or if a sensation such as this would ever grace the young master with its presence again. 

All too suddenly was it over. I felt his hand retreat quickly and if my ears did not deceive me, I heard a small, rather un-sheep-like gasp. I unshuttered the proverbial soul-windows and found the Jeeves before me in a somewhat stricken state. He stood as straight as an arrow and as still as a practice target, with hands glued to his sides. Several steps were between us now but I could still see how his eyes had grown wide with dawning horror.

His lip had begun to bleed again, dripping steadily down his chin and sinking into the white of his shirt. I spotted the telltale tinge of the stuff on his tightly clenched hands. Without thinking I lifted my fingers to where I could still feel the ghost of his palm and felt the sticky warmth of earlier. I slowly tipped the Wooster pate down to inspect my own chemise and found several little dots of red speckling the area just above the first button-- geraniums among the heliotropes as it were. 

“Mr. Wooster, I--” He sounded afraid, his words shaking with his breath. “Sir, I believe I owe you another apology, I have completely forgotten myself--”

With a steadying sigh I snapped myself out of my silly lovesick stupor. I may have lied to you, dear reader, when I said that I dared not give utterance to the name of my hope. For I did, for a fleeting moment anyway. I named it _‘Maybe he does love young Bertram after all.’_ To think. What a fool I was. What a bloody fool. Of course, he forgot himself. Of course that wasn’t _really_ him. Jeeves would never do something like that. Jeeves would never want me like that. 

But the show must carry on. Stiff upper lip and all that. I forced one of my signature sunny smiles. There must be a rational explanation for his actions, for if Jeeves is anything, he is rational.

“There is no need to apologize, old thing, really there is no need.” He paused, fixing me with a quizzical look, and seemed to relax slightly in his confusion. “I say, Jeeves, how much of the needful did you say you imbibed?

The crease in his brow gave way slightly and a sad look of realization flashed across his dial briefly before it went completely blank. What that flickering look meant I could not say, it was gone far too fast. “Perhaps a little more than usual, sir.” 

The soft and tender man of mere moments ago had now vanished completely; dissolved like some sort of phantom into the midnight Mayfair mist. The severe servant now stood in his stead, proper and perfect as always.

“And you must have taken a pretty good blow to the head, eh?”

“Indeed, sir.” Proper and perfect. As always.

“Well then, that’s that! No need to apologize. You simply aren’t yourself right now.” I lay out the proverbial straws I had been grasping at in success. Of course. There’s our answer! That makes much more sense. Silly Wooster. 

“I-- No, sir.”

“Well then, perhaps you should pop off to bed! A good forty winks should set you right.” I had to leave his presence before my heart tore itself all the way through. It is one thing to long for something without hope of receiving it, it is another entirely to long and then be given a spark of hope, only to have it be snuffed out. I am no Tantalus, but it was far easier when I had never known the sweetness of the grapes and the coolness of the water. By Jove, it was far easier when I never even dreamed there could be grapes hanging above me, let alone water lapping around my ankles. No, I am no Tantalus, but this was just a bit too much for the young master to bear.

“Your shirt, sir.” His brusque remark pulled me out of my reverie of shallow pools and swaying vines.

“Yes, what about it?” Really what the devil was he on about? I was in no mood to be talking about clothes at the mo. and I almost told him so.

“And-- And your face.” So wrapped up in heartbreak I was, I had quite forgotten about our reddened vestments and my painted skin.

“Oh don’t worry yourself about that, Jeeves, I’m sure we can remedy it in the morning when you’re feeling better.” And when I’ve had the whole night through to lie awake and run the feeling of your hand on my face over and over and over again in my mind like a faulty phonograph record.

“No, sir.” 

“Eh?” I scoured his face for a single shred of emotion, for a single clue to what could be happening under that cold marble mask, but I came up empty.

“Forgive me, sir, but I should set it to soak now or else I fear the stains will not come out.” Oh right. Valet. I mean, he was valeting. Who am I to prevent the man from doing his job?

“Oh, very well, Jeeves.” 

“Thank you, sir.” He gave a small nod of appreciation before turning toward the door. “If you would please withdraw to the bedroom and change so that I may take the garment.” No forthcoming offer to undress me himself. Right.

As much as I wanted to slink away to lick at my wounded heart, something deep within the Wooster soul stopped me from doing so. Some stubborn sticking something. “Jeeves?” 

“Yes, sir?” His eyes looked as though they were fashioned from glass and his dull gaze sent a chill down the Wooster spine.

“Your shirt is rather crimson too, you better set it to soak as well.” This gave him pause, but the mask did not slip.

“It matters not, sir.” Now this gave Bertram pause.

“Why on earth doesn’t it matter?” I compelled my weak jambs to waver closer to my man.

“Because it is my shirt, sir.” I desperately waded through the fog of his gaze before he tilted his regal head down and away from my searching eyes.

“And mine does matter?” My voice came almost at a whisper then. Astonished might be the right word for Bertram’s tone. Or reverent. Or perhaps baffled would be the better-suited choice.

“Yes, sir.” 

“Why?” 

He raised his heavy head and caught my gaze. I must admit to another shiver passing through the corpus, but not because of the dullness of his eye, it was the opposite really, what I’m trying to say is I trembled at the intense sharpness in his e.s. They were once more filled with that flowing thingness, but it was as though that thingness had taken up a jackknife and whittled itself into a gleaming awn.

“Because it is your shirt, sir.”

I could feel my own peepers grow large with god-knows-what. I found I had lost all words. He was absolutely unbelievable. 

After a brief spell of staring and sputtering, I thrust back the old shoulders, mustered up some gumption, and set out to remedy his preposterous preconception. “Well, that simply won’t do.” I pitched myself at the doorway haphazardly without even a look over the o. s. “Come along, now.”

“Sir?” There was a good dollop of befuddlement in the soup of his voice.

“Come along!” Really! He must know that he matters. He must know that he matters to me. He is my entire world! My sun, my moon, my bally stars! By Jingo, if he doesn’t know that by now the man must be quite the fool! I mean, Jeeves is no fool, but I mean, well, you know what I mean! I cast my yearning heart aside and plucked up the baton as it were. He matters. His blasted shirt matters. Even though he will never love young Bertram, he will always matter to him. And he must be made aware of this. 

A small ovine sigh of defeat sounded behind me. “Very good, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so much for reading this!!!!!!! please let me know what you thought-- comments are appreciated beyond measure
> 
> chapter two will be up shortly and it should be the final chapter
> 
> hope to see you back!!!!!
> 
> <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone!!!
> 
> sorry for taking so long!! chapter two got quite a bit longer than i was expecting so i've decided to split it up so that you all have something to read while i finish off the ending
> 
> hopefully chapter three will be up in a much more timely fashion lol

This Wooster is a complete and utter fool. A nincompoop! A dolt! And despite Jeeves apparently not thinking so, a fathead. And a hypo-whatsit! Here I was, saying how much I love the man, how much I care about him, all the while sitting there and doing absolutely zippo to help him. The man was hurt for heaven’s sake and all I could worry about were my own silly feelings! By Jove, Wooster, the absolute nerve! Well no more! Distractions be gone! Fatuity be gone! Heavy heart, pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over a-whatsit!

Once the noodle had been thoroughly shaken of any amorous thoughts and set straight and determined upon the dutiful shoulder, I began to run through the ways I could best help my man. Sure, I knew Jeeves could take care of himself, but the thingummy of it was that he didn’t have to. And he wouldn’t have to as far as I’m bally well concerned. Nurse Bertie was reporting for duty! I’d patched up my fair share of nicks from tumbles I’ve gotten myself, or indeed my pals, into over the years, and found that whether the cause be nasty spills from bridges, being overly zealous on the old rugby green, or sharply-taloned fiancées, a kind word, a comforting shoulder, and a cloth full of ice usually did the trick. Ice! By jolly, I should have grabbed ice. And bandages. And perhaps some sanitary alcohol. Now where was it that we keep all these thingummies?

“Jeeves?” I rounded on my man just as we were approaching the door to my _chambre_ , for the _salle de bain est attaché_ as it were.

“Yes, sir?” He gave me the long-suffering look of a fellow that was, well, rather long-suffering.

“Jeeves, I say, just shimmer on into the _salle de bain_ and I'll be along in a moment. Just need to find some, er, whatsits.” I flapped the hands at him in a beseeching manner, however, he simply stood stock still, eyebrows raised a quarter of a centimeter.

“Sir, I do not understand why we are here.” 

“Eh?” My hands fell from where they had been flapping. “What the dickens are you on about, Jeeves? I’m going to patch you up.” I took a step toward him and looked up at his big confused map. “It’s no good you talking about how your shirt doesn’t matter. And I’m awfully sorry I was so, er, what’s the word I want?” He simply quirked his brow into a further adumbration of perplexity. “Oh, I don’t know the bally word… Self-absorbed is what I’m trying to get across. I apologize for being rather selfish when you were in need of help. But now I have realized my folly and I’m determined to be of aid. So, into the bathroom we go. Well, you go, I still need to find the whatsits.”

“I am afraid I still do not understand, sir.” He took a step back, away from myself and the _chambre_ door. 

“What is there to understand, old thing? You’re hurt, I’m here to help.” I was dashed firm in my resolve.

“No, sir, I mean-- I appreciate that, sir, it is very generous of you especially after I-- ahem, I mean, sir, why do you perceive yourself to have acted selfishly?”

I could feel the downy hairs on the back of the Wooster neck prickle to attention and the red hot tingle of a blush begin to brand my cheeks. 

“I-- I-- well--” Wait. But of course! He knew not of my enamored inanity! This shouldn’t have surprised me, but sometimes I swear when he looks right at me it’s very easy to assume he can read my mind like it was written down by Spinoza or some similar chappy and bound with glue and leather. I took a much needed lungful of the deep kind, and gave him an honest truth, though indeed not quite the whole truth: “I did not rush to your aid soon enough, I doddled and asked silly questions, caring more about satiating my curiosity than seeing to your injuries.”

He almost smiled then, his lips curling ever so slightly, perhaps in the same fashion that a primrose softly unfurls to the sunrise. “I assure you, sir, I am not so terribly injured.”

“Still, Jeeves, the principle of the matter stands.” I fear I went rather soft then, melting at the sight of his prim and rosy smile. 

“Indeed, sir,” He stuffed his grin back into his frog along with whatever else you stuff a stuffed frog with. “Thank you for your most unnecessary apology and concern, however you are under no obligation to help me.” I was shaken from my floral musings and conviction flooded the young master once more.

“I want to.” I said in what I hoped to be a stern manner. I had not realized that in my attempt at sternness I had reached up and taken his broad shoulders into the Wooster mits.

My man bristled under my hand-- rather bramble-like, if we’re sticking to rose metaphors-- and I dropped my h.s as though pricked. I was just about to apologize when his voice beat mine to the proverbial finish line drawn just outside the lips.

“Upon following you, sir, I did not realize that you intended to take me into the master bathroom.” 

Confusion creased my brow. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I?”

He gave one of his ovine ahems. “It’s not quite… proper, sir.”

“Dash proper, you’re hurt!” No, I say, not a chance! He wasn’t going to wiggle his way out of this by virtue of something so flimsy as the laws of propriety. I think it’s pretty safe to say we’ve already told the laws of propriety to go boil its head by this point.

“I fear the feudal spirit does not allow for such trespasses, sir.” To the sticking place with his feudal spirit! Or perhaps that means it’ll stick around, which is not what I want it to do… to the-- the slipping place with his feudal spirit! Golly, The Bard really doesn’t make it easy for a bird to understand what he means… Regardless! Away with all spirits of the feudal variety!

I set the Wooster jaw and tossed back the Wooster shoulders. “Now, look here, Jeeves--” 

“Sir, please do not worry so. It stings not. I can manage on my own.” He looked almost pleading and I found I all but deflated, my pluck whistling out of me as air whistles from a popped football.

“But you don't have to-- you always take care of me, Jeeves, please let me take care of you.” I tried to dash up some resolve but found I rather sagged, and I bet all my remaining hope on the proverbial pony called _“Maybe he’ll let me help him out of pity or some such distasteful emotion”._

He looked at me then, not with pity in his eyes, but with the watery thingness I’ve so often referred to in this short tale. And I simply stared back, probably with some watery stuff of a similar stock in mine own e.s.

“Are you quite certain, sir?” His words were soft and unsure. 

I bobbed the loaf in a steady nod.

“Very good, sir.” And with that he drifted through the bedroom door as a ship would drift to harbour. 

I, however, did not drift so much as scramble away from the bedroom and out to the hall; scurrying like a church mouse who’d just overheard that very soon the clergy was to begin employing church cats. I sacked every pantry and little cupboard in the hallway quicker than you could say ‘King Alaric’ and came away with the goods: some bandages, a neatly folded face-cloth, and a small vial of rubbing alcohol. _En route_ back to the bedroom I made one last stop in the kitchen where I took a scoopful of ice from the icebox and twisted it up into a teatowel.

I returned to the _salle de bain_ to find the statue that was my manservant, standing stiller than, well, than a statue! His marble-y figure hovered beside the counter, hesitant and tentative. This was a strange Jeeves indeed. Not the marble part-- his countenance is often hewn from stone-- but the uncertainty with which he stood. Never in all my years have I seen such a Jeeves. Never have I been privy to this strange and exquisite creature: a shy Jeeves! It was as though my faithful bellwether had been swapped for a wobbly little lamb. A lamb made of marble, that is: small and skittish and completely still. 

Softly, I rapped the frame of the open door with the old knuckles. Now what kind of ninny knocks on the door to his own bathroom when the door is open, and on the frame no less, I’m sure you, dear reader, are asking yourself, and the only answer I can give you is one B.W.W. I wanted to alert Jeeves to my presence without frightening him off, for by the look of him he was one pin-drop away from bolting. He snapped his noodle Wooster-ward, before inclining it and regaining his dignified air. Well, dignified to any other man who saw him perhaps, but if I’m a master of anything it is at reading Jeeveses and to this young master he still looked rather lamb-ish. 

“I say, old thing, why don’t you just have a sit-down?” I gestured to the settee kept beside the bath. He opened his mouth in what I’m certain was to be protest. “Don’t you dare say a word on the subject of propriety. I simply won’t have it.” Silently, he acquiesced and ever so gingerly took a seat. I handed him the ice-full towel and instructed that he hold it to his shiner. He gave a gentle ‘thank you, sir’ and low sigh as he settled the i. upon his e. 

After laying down the cloth, bandages, and alcohol, I ran the tap, filling the sink with cold water in order to set our daubed shirts to soak. I also began to run a bath in order to set Jeeves to soak, hoping a hot sousing would help unknot his surely sore muscles. 

The rising steam quickly filled the little room, twirling about and fogging up the old looking glass. All that vapor lended the place a rather soothing and restful air, like one of those mountain mineral springs one always hears about, the kind that refills the chassis with vim and vigour. 

Jeeves was beginning to look like his v. and v. were trickling back to him slowly but surely. His breath came easy and his brow had unfastened itself from its high and tight spot. Midnight-blue eyes shone once more as they idly swept the misty room before alighting on the counter just behind me.

“Although I do appreciate the thought, sir, I really do not believe we will require such items.”

“Eh? Oh!” I spun ‘round and came to face the bandages et al.

“I fear they may not prove useful, sir, as I am not bleeding anywhere save for my lip and the only other injuries I sustained were bruises.”

I installed the Wooster palms on the old hips and gave him a once over. He was right; even his lip had practically dammed up its leakage by now, and what good would a bandage do on a bruise? My hands fell and I proceeded to flounder as I am want to do.

“Oh, oh… You’re right, Jeeves. Terribly sorry, old fruit. I’m rather er, whatsit, and, and I’m not very good at this I see. What is it I can do to help?”

He gave me an indulgent look, no doubt enjoying this fumbling unmanful display of mine.

“You need not do anything, sir.” Oh, he was going to be the death of me.

“But is there anything, Jeeves? Anything at all?” Lord knows I would do anything for him. If the old silly would ever let me! Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths, enwrought with golden and silver whatsit, I would spread the cloths under his bally feet, but I being, well, being me, had only a blasted face-cloth and a desperate streak.

“Anything, Jeeves.” I flashed him my most saucery eyes: a plea.

His eyes caught on mine, they were swimming with that god-knows-what. “I-- Well--” He cleared his throat and looked away. “Well, sir, I suppose you could dampen that cloth you have brought and hand it to me so that I may clean my lip?” Though that was what he said, something deep in my gut told me that's not what he had intended to say when he first opened his mouth. But nevertheless, it was something I could do for him.

I slipped the cloth under the faucet in the sink before turning it off. The porcelain basin now contained a pleasantly gleaming little pool, I noted before I swivelled and advanced upon my man, cloth at the ready.

“Hold on just a mo., Jeeves.” I halted mid-ambulation.

“Sir?”

I clucked the old teeth. “You’ve got your hands all full with the ice… Oh, I know! Here, allow me,” 

Before the man could raise any challenge, I came to kneel in front of him. Only as the cloth was being lifted to Jeevsian lips did young Bertram realize what a half-baked idea this truly was. Not even half-baked! Less-than-a-quarter-baked would be more accurate; if you stuck it with a cocktail stick, the stick would not come out clean. Needless to say, Wooster B. wasn’t the sharpest utensil in the scullery, but honestly! If you recall, he had made this exact same mistake not but an hour ago in the flat doorway. One would have thought he was a titch wiser than this, that he would have learned, what? 

With trembling hand, I blotted away every trace of sanguine fluid. I could feel the plushness of his lips through the cotton and I suppressed the urge to lick my own l.s. After telling myself to, quote, _‘get a grip, man’_ , I brought the cloth down across his chin, then over to wipe a speck from his finely chiseled jaw. By the burning of my damasks and shell-likes it was safe to assume I had gone positively rubicund by now. I truly do not know how my man manages to have such an effect on me! Just-- He was so dashed close! I took a measured breath and then chanced a glance upward. And reader, I know I’ve attempted to describe the look in my man’s eyes several times during this missive and I know you’ve probably had it up to your hat with me and the bally ‘thingness’ I keep prattling on about, but truly, I know not how else to describe it! No amount of Wooster wit could tot up what that look meant. But it was there regardless, and it had me reeling.

Carefully, I brought the cloth to rest in my lap, my job complete. However, I found that I could not stretch out the old pins in a way that would have me upright. So there I kneeled, on the tile floor, stuck, close to him. Oh so very close to him.

Lingering as such brought to mind that Lethaea and Olenus duo; lovers fixed in stone forevermore. Not that Jeeves and I were lovers of course… I’m also not all at that vain. Nor a metaphor for Orpheus’ failure, last time I checked. So maybe it didn’t quite fit the ticket. Ah but still, you get the gist: I was utterly ossified.

“Sir,” He had lowered the ice from his eye and was now white-knuckling it where it rested on his thigh. “Sir, I-- Thank you.”

His voice came at an oddly deep pitch, almost hoarse, but it snapped me from whatever spell had been placed over me and I shot to my feet. “C-- Course, old thing!” 

In an attempt to compose myself I went to fiddle with the tub. This was all well and good and I’m sure you, dear reader, see nothing amiss here, however as I twisted off the tap my heart was clenched by the clammy hand of dread. It dawned on me in a sort of out of body way, like I was watching myself act in a picture show, that I had just signed, sealed, and delivered upon myself a rather beastly fate. You see, Bertram is no fool. Well, he is a fool, but that’s beside the point, and not pertinent to this particular situation, so let’s just say that Bertram was, at the mo., no fool. He could connect the dots and connect them he bally well did… He’d drawn the sink for the shirts and the bath for Jeeves… And in order to bung the shirts in the sink, he’d first have to remove said shirts… And in order to bung Jeeves in the bath… Well, the man would have to remove quite a bit more than just his shirt. A specific sort of lump was born unto the Wooster throat. What in god’s great daisy-chain had he been thinking?! Really Wooster! How many gaffes can one man make in so many minutes? The fool persists in his folly, but he is no more wise!

Well, nothing for it. Bertram would just have to rise above. Surely the desire to see Jeeves cared for could overthrow the desire for, well, for Jeeves himself. Where was that Wooster courage, I say? That unyielding moral fibre? That stick-to-it-iveness of the ancestors? They didn’t win at Agincourt just for their progeny to lose his nerve now. Though I must say, at this point, given the choice between French steel and my valet _in dishabille_ , I would take my chances with a saber.

Well, if it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly, I figured.

“Alright, Jeeves, out of the kit then,” Brevity is the soul of whatsit, what?

“Sir?” He sat up so straight then you could have hung overcoats and toppers off of him.

I lay the imbrued cloth down on the counter by the sink and counted to ten within the sanctity of my coconut. “Come on then,” I plastered a reassuring grin onto the dial.

He rose slowly from the settee. “I’m afraid I must have misheard you, sir.” His tone was rummily measured, more so than usual, like he was actively grappling with some unruly thingummy he wanted to hold at bay. 

He floated toward me and my face fell for a moment upon spotting the intensity of his mien. I quickly bucked myself back up, as it were, but gave a slight start as my hindquarters collided with the counter behind me. “I say, er, I said, off with the old soup and fish…”

He fell to such perusal of my face, as though he would draw it. 

“You wish for me to undress, sir?” Well, when he bally well put it like that! Oh good lord-- What’s a chap to say, I ask you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks again for your readership!!!!!! let me know what you thought!!!!!
> 
> hope to see you back here soon 
> 
> :^)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my gosh!!!! im so sorry this took so long!!!! between the state of the world and dumb classes i haven't had much time to write!!! 
> 
> this fic has honesty got out of hand and there will be one more chapter after this one aaaaaa i will try to get that one up pretty soon

“Er, rather, I mean, yes,” My voice had been reduced to a manly squeak and I scrabbled for conversational purchase, “That is unless you fancy your socks and trousers need a good washing as well, what?” It appeared as though my attempt at levity was lost on him. He fixed me with a searching look before following my gaze to the full tub.

Recognition sparked in his eyes. “Oh yes, of course, sir. Of course…”

I may have imagined it but the man almost seemed a dash embarrassed, though how I came to that corollary I could not tell, for surely the colour that suffused his high cheeks was not a blush-- Jeeveses do not blush.

“However, if you will permit me to first--” He reached an arm around behind me and I must confess that I couldn’t quite gauge what he intended to do. I pressed myself further against the counter and squeezed the baby blues shut. 

Not a moment later I felt the soft rub of cotton against my cheekbone. I cracked my e.s and saw that my man had taken up the face-cloth I had left on the counter behind me and was now gently wiping away at the Wooster cheek. His visage was ostensibly blank, but somewhere under all that frog I could discern how it was lined with something like fondness and creased with something like woe.

I wondered in a dizzy sort of way why exactly he was doing what he was bally well doing. After a few moments of what should have been puzzling, but was really just the y.m. sort of staring in a gawkishly dreamy sort of manner, I bumped into my answer. Stumbled upon it really, the way one stumbles into an old friend after spending a night in the cups. The room was indeed spinning a titch like I was tight, sparkling a tad too. He was taking an awful long time… So slow, so gentle… Why was he doing that again? Oh right! Yes, my stumbled-upon answer: the Jeevesian ichor that had been smudged onto the Wooster cheek when he had-- Good lord alive-- When he had--

The cloth was gone from my cheek and Jeeves regarded me with more worry than I thought the man capable of exhibiting. I didn’t realize I was trembling until his hand fell upon my shoulder to steady me.

“Are you quite well, sir?”

Oh blast... his hand was so big and warm… “Yes! Yes, quite well, thank you, Jeeves,” The larynx was pulled tight, like violin strings tuned too high-- that is to say positively stridulous and feeling just about ready to snap.

“You are most welcome, sir.”

His voice, on the _autre main_ , was dangerously low, and I knew I had to extract myself from between him and the counter before I did something rash. With a half-hearted chuckle and lowered eyes, I gracefully flung myself from between my rock and hard place. 

Once obtaining the safety afforded by the few feet between us, I endeavoured to get our metaphorical train back onto its proverbial tracks _vis-à-vis_ the bath debacle.

“Well then! I say, er, I say…” I had intended to stick around while he divested himself in order to examine the damage of any blows he had brooked, but I was beginning to think that the eventuality that I start seeing stars once he removes his waistcoat then presumably lose consciousness altogether when he shucks off his shirt, was becoming increasingly more likely. 

I didn’t altogether fancy conking out onto the tile floor, but then again I had a duty to perform. I had to be brave. _‘Courage mon cher Hastings!’_ as The Belgian Detective says. Courage! I did my best to muster some of the stuff up but when I rallied the troops for a nose count, as it were, I found that this Wooster was severely understaffed. Well there’s nothing for it, I suppose. We must sally forth-- once more again unto the breach and all that rot.

“I say!” I found myself wavering to and fro, hands clasped tight behind the old back, not quite sure where to put myself. “I say, let’s have a look-see, what?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” His brow levered itself at least a centimetre however the rest of his face remained absolutely sculpturesque. 

Bertram Wilberforce Wooster you are a fathead with an even fatter tongue. 

“At your injuries! At your recently acquired injuries! Not-- Not-- I didn’t mean-- Oh blast-- I-- Unless you rather I didn’t, which is perfectly alright! I mean, I just-- I want to help-- If I can-- And-- I mean, I suppose having your master gawk at you is the last thing you’d want, which is completely understandable, practically lurid, even! Hah! Hahah! So I’ll just give you your privacy then--” Somewhere amidst my bobbling I had found the requisite amount of time to lose my nerve. I mean, what was I doing really? I wanted to help, but of what use could I be? None, that’s of what use. I wanted to make him feel better, but why would I be able to do that? The last thing I wanted to do was make him uncomfortable. Oh dash it all! I hadn’t even asked if he had wanted a bath! I’d just shepherded him into one like some sort of, er well, shepherd! Worry had cast clouds across the baby blues and my vision couldn’t carry past its manufactured haze. I was just the master ordering around the servant once again, and lord knows he didn’t need more of that. Oh Bertram you clot.

“I do not mind, sir.” His voice rang gently through the misty little room and I ceased my jittery pacing.

“Come again?” I caught his loaded gaze for an instant before he turned his eyes floorward.

“I do not mind if sir wishes to stay.” Marble still encrusted his features though somewhere underneath-- not by way of a crack, mind, more like a soft glow emanating from within-- I could see the shine of sincerity. This was not an act of feudal obedience and I was in equal measures relieved and terrified of what that entailed.

“Oh. Oh, alright, good-o then, I’ll just--” I flailed a hand at the corner of the room and stumbled over to take my consequences. 

Time turned rather funny then, slowing like that certain treacle in that certain winter month. Everything took on a sluggish air and I knew that I couldn’t make myself move then, not for all the pekoe in China. Still, I kept trying to scold myself into averting my gaze from him. But I found I could not bring myself to look away. It was as if my eyes had been stitched into the hem of his waistcoat and I had not the strength to tear them away. I was mesmerized as I watched him kick off his brogues, entranced as I saw him unfasten his timepiece. I felt a tingling thrill insinuate itself along my spine as his fingers unbuttoned and eased off his waistcoat. Oh how weak I was, how weak he made me… 

He was a rather big cove, sturdily built, like a bull, but with all the grace of matador. His braces strained slightly over broad shoulders and when strong arms reached up to slip them off, one could see how his shirt pulled exquisitely across his vast chest. His trim waist was accentuated elegantly by the striking contrast between the crisp white of the shirt and the jet of his trousers. He moved his capable hands to his tie-less collar and did away with it. Setting the starched item onto the counter, he then proceeded to card his fingers through his thick ebony hair. Ostensibly in order to tame it I’m sure, but it did nothing of the sort, if anything the action tousled the silk-like strands irretrievably. He looked positively rakish! Like some sort of dashing rogue one reads about in a dirty dime novel! This was a man who steals into heroines’ bedchambers under cover of night, not a man who darns my socks! This was a man who says things like ‘Your money or your life!’ not ‘Your tea, sir.’! This was not my Jeeves! And yet, it was… 

At this point, I assumed I was not long for this world. I could feel my soul rattling about my mortal envelope, vying to slip past the shoddy line of paste holding it prisoner. Just when I thought it might finally have found a gap in the seal, my gaze caught on his glinting cufflinks. He had begun to fiddle with them and I was wholly enraptured. There was something strangely delicate in the way he undid his cuffs. Though I suppose there is always something s. d. when it comes to undoing c.s in general; some fleeting tinge of vulnerability. I think it’s something about the turning of the wrists slightly outward, about bringing the hands close yet still separate, about being released from previous restrictions. But not just the release, not just the undoing-- you could unknot the rope yet Saint Sebastian would still be held to the tree. No this, this was a pulling of arrows. A tugging loose of all inhibition. 

Listen to me! Who’s from a dime novel now? The man wasn’t even out of his shirt yet! Besides, it’s not like his inhibitions were being yanked out of him, I reminded myself. I knew the doffing of his outer layer wasn’t an invitation for this Wooster to start, well, to start anything. I couldn’t help feeling a tad grimy. Despite him ‘not minding’, I felt not unlike the lecherous employer lusting over the unwitting servant. I suppose that’s what I was. Oh I made myself sick. Yet, I still couldn't look away. 

With his cuffs completely undid, and my own self completely undone, he then moved on to un-stud his shirt… And oh good lord. He ruled me with every sweep of his hands, with every deft movement of his fingers. I would have done anything he asked me to in that moment. Except perhaps move or speak or blink or think, as I was still not sure I had the capacity to do any of those. All I could do was watch. Watch as more and more of him was revealed to me. An ever-expanding panorama of incomparable beauty. When all his studs were lined up on the counter, standing at attention like little mother-of-pearl soldiers, he slid free of his cotton keep. He submerged the item in the sink basin and then turned to regard me. Even though I could feel his eyes on me, I still couldn’t stop my own e.s from roaming. So much skin, so much _Jeeves_. So much I’d never seen, never imagined I would see… The flex of the muscles that defined his arms; the few dark freckles that spangled his left shoulder; the thick hair that carpeted the expanse of his chest and trailed all the way down his abdomen before disappearing into his trousers; the hip bones peeking out just over his waistband; the delightful bit of fluff around his middle; his forearms, broad and dusted with more dark hair; the gentle curve of his neck; the profound loveliness of his collarbone. And above all that his beloved face… His roughhewn jaw; his impressive nose with its endearing crook; his high damask cheeks; his eminent inky brow; his prim mouth, which I noted to be quirked into one of his trademark half-smiles; and his eyes… His left one still bearing the indicia of the duel… His eyes… Deeper than the deepest blue of evening and full of such flashing intelligence… And brimming with that thingness that I couldn’t quite name… His eyes… His eyes that were still fixed on me… Good heavens! His eyes! He was just-- just staring back at me while I ogled him!

Oh how my own dial must have looked! The Wooster pate could as well have been the head of a match recently struck against the rough side of a matchbox marketed as ‘shame’. I expected him to say some cutting whatsit or threaten to biff me in the nose, but he just stood staring at me with that blasted almost-smile and that blasted nameless thingness. I tried for words but they failed me, the only noise that managed to smuggle its way past my lips was a sputtering “I-- I--”

He began to glissade toward the young master then and I thought that any second now Bertram would be forced to embark upon a quick sojourn as to better acquaint himself with the floor tiles. 

“Sir is forgetting about his own shirt.” His voice rumbled out of him like, like, dash it, like something that rumbles… Does thunder rumble? If you asked me then I could not have told you. I couldn’t have told you my own bally name. The only thing I knew at that moment was that I was ‘Sir’ and I was forgetting about my own shirt, whatever a ‘shirt’ was, or ‘forgetting’ for that matter.

He came to a gentle halt before me and settled his hands on the lapels of my dressing gown. I was utterly wrecked. Totally and completely. The S.S. Wooster had crashed upon the rocky shore and was now sinking slowly into a watery grave. 

“Allow me, sir.” With that he detached my robe from the corpus and folding it in half over his bare arm, brought his fingers to the topmost button of my pajama shirt. Now, as you will know if you’ve read any of my other tales, or indeed are familiar with the job description of a valet, Jeeves undresses me practically daily. And while that in itself is an exercise for the Wooster restraint, having a Jeeves undress me while he himself was in a state of _dishabille_ … Well! 

As he worked the buttons, I gallantly fended off the incredibly strong urge to reach out and touch. To run my hands along his arms, his shoulders, his chest, through that thick hair, and down, down… I could feel a rummy sort of warmth begin to pool in the pit just under my stomach. Each time I shot a glance up at him he was giving me that little half-smirk of his, which for some reason, made that pooling warmth slosh up and give me cause to jolt not a little bit. So I determined it would be best to keep my e.s d. 

From this close, I could see a few purpling marks along his ribs and one just under his right clavicle, if clavicle is the word I want. Not only had the blackguard marred my man’s handsome face, but he had also hurt his lovely body. Of all the absolute nerve! Anger roiled up inside me like a pot whose lid had been left on. The anger was followed swiftly by an influx of anguish. 

“Oh Jeeves,” 

“Sir?” He freed the final button, slipped my p.j. shirt from my shoulders, and folded it too over his arm. I shivered violently in its absence. 

“Oh Jeeves, he hurt you.” His half-smile stretched in an almost rueful manner, and the delicate places at corners of his eyes and between his brows became creased with what I would call tenderness if it were to appear on any other man.

“Yes, he did, sir, though not severely. I have sustained far worse, sir, a few bruises do not pain me awfully.” A fissure wrenched itself through the Wooster heart. If it were up to Bertram, Jeeves would never see so much as a rain cloud let alone physical harm! I didn’t know what to do, what to say, what I could do or could say. I wanted to take him into my arms now and just hold him. Hold him, for I knew not what else I could do… And then, I couldn’t even hold him, could I? No, I couldn’t. That would only cause him more grief. I had been the cause of his grief already. By Jove, I was the reason he was hurt! Oh how could I? He gets hurt because of me, I neglect his injuries and bombard him with questions, then I shove him bathroom-ward, only to leer at him and be of no proper use! I couldn’t believe what an absolute cad I was. An absolute bally cad. 

“Oh Jeeves!” I vowed to myself I would do everything in my power to protect him from then on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for reading!!!! sorry this chapter was a bit short
> 
> i promise next chapter they'll have sex. i promise.
> 
> hope to see you back soon
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my goodness! that took so long! i am so so sorry! thank you for hanging in there!!! i wasn't able to write this past little while but i finally have the time now! this chapter is a bit short, but there will be one more after this. and i'm sorry i lied-- they will have sex next chapter!

“Oh Jeeves,”

“Sir?” His half-smile faltered and distress coloured his tone in bold, dark strokes.

“Oh Jeeves, I’m so sorry. He hurt you because of me! And here I am-- I’m not doing anything to help-- I don’t know how-- I just-- Jeeves let me help, what can I do-- I can-- Anything, Jeeves-- I just-- I don’t know how-- I’m so sorry--” Tears pricked meanly at the corners of my eyes, in the same way that a particularly malicious child with a stick pin might jab at an unlucky beetle. I felt foolish, exposed before him; shirtless, helpless, useless. The pilot light that had been set under my stomach clicked off, causing the bubbling anger to cool into nothingness in the saucepan of my gut. Even the sloshing warmth of earlier had dissipated and Bertram was left with only a rising sort of sickness and a hollow sort of chill that took up residence just below the old ribcage.

“Oh sir, please do not fret,” He lifted a hand slowly, and as naturally as if he were brushing a spot of lint from my dinner jacket, his thumb swiped a wayward tear from the Wooster cheek. Though his hand did not linger this time, I was still rather taken aback. The familiarity and ease with which he touched me made my heart perk up and begin to beat out a snappy foxtrot. This cardiovascular rug cutting only aided in heightening my sense of anxiety, but no matter how many times I bid my ticker to discard the clippers and carpet swatch, it simply would not obey. 

“But-- Jeeves, he hurt you! And I can’t fix it for you and it’s all my fault--” I was stopped short by those steady hands coming to rest upon the upper parts of my bare arms.

“No, sir. It is in no way your fault. He hurt me because of the actions I took. I chose to react as I did.” His thumbs rubbed little reassuring circles into my skin and it felt as though my entire being was following the motion-- trapped in a whirlpool of Jeeves, being tugged further and further down into the deep. 

I tried to order my thoughts, finding it awfully difficult to think and near impossible to be as upset as I should. “But still, Jeeves, I can’t help but feel I’ve been nothing but trouble-- And I just-- I’m-- Terribly sorry, old thing.”

“Please do not apologize, sir, it is completely unnecessary.” His almost-smile inched its way back across his map. “And you have in no way been troublesome.” He punctuated this by giving the old prongs a gentle squeeze. Oh good lord it was so easy to just believe him with him looking at me like that-- with him _holding_ me like that.

“Well, dash it, I may not have hindered, but I’ve not been of any help.” Rather reluctantly, I must admit, I shrugged out of his grasp and looked away from that blasted half-smile of his.

“On the contrary, sir, your simply being here is a great comfort to me. Not to mention your willingness to be of aid and your goodhearted attentiveness, which together have left me at more ease than I was even before the acquisition of my injuries.” I could tell, simply by his voice, that the little wrinkles around his eyes were crinkled in kindness, that his brow was soft, that his lips were turned with affection, and that his gaze was one of tender warmth. I both loved and hated that I could tell such things. 

Out of the great blue nowhere, I suddenly found fingers underneath my chin, gently tipping my face up towards him. The Wooster bosom hurt so bad just then one might’ve thought Jeeves’d run the young master through with some sort of halberd. It took all my strength to simply meet his gaze, and when I did, I wished I hadn’t, for it was filled with that thingness that perhaps used to thrill, but now only handed the man another couple halberds and gaily shouted ‘have at ‘em!’.

Some of my suffering must have suffused its way to the surface of my dial, for my man’s brows drew together in the way storm clouds draw close before an afternoon shower.

“For, Mr. Wooster, to be the recipient of your care, sir, if I may be permitted to say so, is a treasure beyond the capacity of which my words can express.”

My jaw went slack in his hand. I didn’t know what to say to him, didn’t know what I had that I could say. I could feel the faintest tendrils of warmth warily creep back into the corpus and I trembled a bit as they began to unfurl themselves within the Wooster chest and tum. Shame and sorrow weren’t completely gone, but perhaps a bit choked out, rather in the same way a sprawling rosebush might come to eclipse a lattice fence. These new roses cried out for me to lean up, to reach out, to take his lips with mine. To have him, that this was an invitation to have him. To finally have him… Still, the trellis in me urged I take up shears and cut the blooms back. This wasn’t a solicitation, this wasn’t anything. He wasn’t for me, not to take, not to have. I’d hurt him enough already… As I’m sure you can see, dear reader, it was all rather dire and at this rate, and use of metaphor, it would only land me with an utterly ruined garden.

I couldn’t go on like this. I turned my head to the side, freeing it from the lovely fetter of his fingers. And with a deep intake of the needful, I scrabbled desperately for levity.

“See now, you’re comforting me while you’re the one who is hurt! I should be comforting you! I shouldn’t be so dashed silly.” Well blast, so bally much for levity. 

“Sir, I will never mind comforting you. Never.” A rummy sort of resolve overshadowed the tenderness in his voice. “Please do not worry about me.”

Oh that man! The loaf pivoted violently back Jeeves-ward. “But I do, Jeeves! I do worry! Of course I worry, I--” I cut myself short-- slammed the brakes before the two-seater skidded over the cliff and into the craggy abyss.

Bertram was an utter bally mess. I couldn’t be like this, not if I want to help him. I took in another lungful and tried to be stronger. 

“Where else did he hurt you?” I squared the old shoulders and straightened out the map, determined to get back _en route_.

My man looked a bit thrown by the sudden change in Wooster. “Just along here, sir,” He indicated his ribs, “here,” under his clavicle, “and here,” a spot on his side I had missed earlier, “and my eye, of course.” 

My e.s traced the perse splotches and I’m afraid to say, my strength crumbled like so much biscuit in tea. My poor, poor Jeeves! Tears threatened to show their salty mugs again and I was once more reduced to a blubbering milksop.

“Oh, Jeeves,” I could kick myself for feeling so weak, but I was afraid if I did, kick myself that is, I would not be able to stop the waterworks from switching _on_.

“In all sincerity, sir, I assure you, I am not in pain.” He shimmered even closer to the y.m. and his being so close… So very, very close… Was all at once overwhelming and soothing in a rummyish kind of way. 

“But, Jeeves--” The voice was thinned into a breathy sort of whatsit.

“Even if I were, sir, I would like to disclose that I would gladly bear anything for you.” He couldn’t possibly mean that, not truly. Surely it was that feudal spirit of his talking.

“Oh but, Jeeves, I mean, honestly,” My eyes raked over his battered chest, over the testament to the harm that had befallen him. “All this? For me?” 

I’m sure you can perceive, dear reader, the slight _double entendre_ of my choice of words just then, but I assure you, at the moment the words escaped my quivering lip, I was indeed referring to his suffering and not, well, him and his _‘all this’_ , as it were. However I do confess indeed that _after_ I had loosed the words, I became subtly aware of the way my yearning may have painted them. Just as I was about to ensure that Jeeves had not paired my remark with the incorrect connotation-- no doubt by way of a long-winded meandering through some balmy non-thought followed up swiftly by hollow excuses, a daring escape, and a night spent sniffling into a pillow-- a voice, sweet and low, rumbled through my very soul.

“Anything for you, sir.” Reader, I cannot even begin to describe the emotion that lay behind those four words. Graveness wasn’t the exact word, nor was sweetness, nor was sorrow… Similarly I cannot describe the emotions that they had laid into my chest-- veneration, warmth, agony… And despite it all-- love. 

“Anything?” A silly question perhaps. Perhaps not even a question. Perhaps a reassurance of every unspoken thingummy his previous sentence had connoted. Or, I should say, that I _thought_ it had connoted.

“Anything.” Somehow that one word meant more than any other word I had ever heard in the entirety of my existence. 

It resounded between my ears like some kind of philharmonic would do as it swelled to fill a symphony hall; each note reverberating off of each wall… _Anything… Anything… Anything… Anything…_

I suppose I was well past any shred of sanity and dignity at that point and I found that, though I had never truly been ashamed of my love for him, I still held something close to shame within my breast. Perhaps shame for my own foolishness, shame for my helplessness, shame for my hopefulness, shame for my lack of hope-- not shame for him, never for him, but for Wooster, B. But at that word, and those emotions it so cruelly cemented in place, I found that I knew no shame. That the love I had for him outshone the shame like, like, er like! Like when one closes his eyelids and still finds he can see the red of sunlight. That’s how-- no matter how heavy the veil, how dark the night, how deep the whatsit, it shone right bally through. My guiding light, the light of my life.

In this moment of bursting shamelessness, I must confess I forgot myself a titch, and I was compelled to reach out then and place a hand upon his chest. All at once I became intoxicated by the heat of him, by the feel of his skin under mine, by the thrum of his heart in his breast, and all at once, I realized the folly of my ways. With perhaps a slight trickle of shame seeping back into Bertram, I made to pull my hand away. Before I could manage however, a big, warm hand came gently to encircle my own, holding it in place upon him.

“Anything.”

That blasted word. If he had said any other word then perhaps I wouldn’t have done what I had done in that particular moment. _Anything…_ That word. That word possessed me. It seized the strings of my soul and made me puppet to my desires. That one little word. That word. Oh! That word. 

That word had not been out of his mouth two seconds before I found myself shutting the baby blues, reaching up with my free hand, planting it upon his damask cheek, taking to my tiptoes, leaning forward, and pressing my lips upon his. 

Something inside me broke as I did so. Not an unhappy breaking, mind, but a joyous one; like a plate gleefully hurled onto tile or a glass shattered underfoot at a wedding. Bertram was breaking, bursting, beaming with love! I wanted nothing more from life than to kiss him all my days long. 

He tasted of copper, like the kettle he uses for my tea each morning. Not to say I've ever licked the kettle, but well-- Oh it doesn't bally matter, I was too occupied with having his lips on mine to think anything sensical really. And, rather unfortunately I must say, the fact that I was not thinking sensically made this Wooster miss a rather important whatsit: Jeeves was not kissing me back. 

Panic set in just about instantaneously and with what would have been a jump, had I not been attached at the mouth to my manservant, I tore myself from him.

All the little hairs on the back of my neck were stood up, no doubt enjoying the unseasonably cold sweat that had sprung up at the Wooster nape. I kept the peepers squeezed tight, too cowardly to even look at him. Oh Wooster, you cad! You cur! You knave! How could you! You swear to protect the man from harm! You vow! And now, you go right ahead and kiss him! A chasm yawned itself into existence right where my stomach used to reside. I vowed to protect him. And yet. And yet, I have failed to protect him from myself. I could feel tears prick my eyes as though a brier patch had sprouted up around them. Oh Bertram what have you done?

I knew the situation was unsalvageable, still the least I owed the man was an apology. Then he could box my nose and ring up the law, and I could be dragged off to the chokey contented in my knowing that I had expressed to him my remorse.

“Oh Jeeves-- Oh Jeeves I’m so sorry, I-- I... Jeeves?” 

One of the very last things one expects to feel when bracing oneself for a blow to the noggin is the sensation of two warm hands coming to tenderly frame said noggin. I do believe I actually gasped upon opening my eyes, for there was the face of Jeeves, taking up my entire field of sight. In his eyes, mounting ever higher, as the sea mounts to the crest of a wave, was that unnamed thingness. And on his lips… On his lips was a smile. Not a quarter-smile, not a half-smile, but a full bally pint! He smiled and by the way my heart cried out you’d have thought I was looking upon all that was good and all that was beautiful in heaven and on earth. And really, I was. 

“I apologize, sir, I was not expecting you to act so… suddenly.” I could feel the puff of his words upon my skin. All fear fled from my being with a sigh and all the bursting joy of before came running back to me with a small airy laugh.

My hands came tentatively around to his back and ever so slowly, he brought his lips to mine once more. I have no way of telling you, dear reader, just how-- how _good_ it felt to kiss him and to have him kiss me in return. So simple a thing perhaps, but so complex a feeling.

When we broke apart to give our lungs and hearts a quick rest, his hands trailed down to my shoulders and he held me at arm’s length. I could see him fully then, see his beloved face, his lovely eyes, and that streaming thingness flowing from within them. And in that neverending-fleeting moment I finally understood what that thingness was. 

It was love.

Love!

Love.

It was in his eyes now, and had been for the majority of this evening. But I’d seen it in his gaze so many times now I couldn’t even begin to count them if I wanted to… When I blink open my bleary eyes each morning; when he brings me my tea; when I finish plunking out a tune that isn’t music hall drek; when I return home from my club; when he straightens my tie; when I watch him cook; when I chatter on about some silly whatsit; when I call his name; when I smile at him; when his hands hold my face; and now, when I kiss him.

How I missed it before I could not tell you. I was a bally fool, though I’m sure you knew that already. To think, all this time… I was looking at him, I was loving him, and he was looking and loving right back.

He pulled me from my melancholy musings with the raise of an eyebrow. My heart all but soared with the love I had for him in that moment, and all I could do was haul him back in for more of the good stuff. 

If I had to express my state of being then, it would not be a word known to man that would pass my lips but rather a noise that, upon reading about one may not fully comprehend but perhaps by hearing it one could. Because paper has never been a very good audible medium, I shall give you a few descriptors that would have been perceivable in that noise: happy, weepy, mollified, inspired, close to death, never more alive. And above all, madly, wildly, and unforgivingly in love.

Needless to say, I really threw myself into the whole kissing wheeze. Rather going at it like a matinee idol in a bally serial romance. Though, I must say, it was more Jeeves who was playing the part of the leading man: nearly dipping me as he clutched at my waist and back. My head was positively spinning with the nearness of him and my body was absolutely burning.

When we broke apart once more I established the Wooster hands upon that broad chest of his.

“I say old thing, not that I wish to stick a wrench into what I hope to soon be happening, but, ah, are you sure you’re up for, er, this? I wouldn't want to put any strain upon your injuries--”

My answer came in the form of strong hands being planted upon the bottoms of my thighs. I gave a manly squeak as I found myself being lifted, and a giggle when I found I had become taller than my man. And oh, I say! I always knew he was strong, but well! I wrapped my legs ‘round his middle like the ivy green o’er ruins old, and gave him a peck on top of his head.

He did something extraordinary then: he laughed. Laughed, I tell you! Deep and fruity and more lovely than any lilting refrain known to mankind. 

Warmth had once again kindled itself in the low part of my tum, though what once was only a pilot light, was now a four-alarm fire in its full blazing swing. And each shimmer-ish step he took, in what I eagerly presupposed to be the direction of my bed, only aided to fan that flame forth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so much for continuing to read this!!!! 
> 
> hope you enjoyed seeing the idiots finally Do Something. 
> 
> hope to see you back here soon! 
> 
> <3


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